


Your Attention

by Hansotsi (Karmula)



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Emotional Infidelity, Engagement, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasizing, Married Anna/Kristoff (Disney), Pining, Post-Frozen 2 (2019), Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Anna/Kristoff (Disney), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karmula/pseuds/Hansotsi
Summary: Kristoff’s breath, hot and heavy, rolled down Anna’s neck, each of his chesty exhales perfectly in time with the thrust of his hips. A large, labour-roughened hand tightened around her waist, while the other grasped the headboard above her as he continued to thrust. He was beautiful, angelic, even, and yet for all she was feeling, he might not have been there at all.Surely, at some point, she had loved Kristoff, loved the things they did together, loved the way he’d made her feel. Once upon a time, they had made sense. Surely, at some point, she hadn’t pictured somebody else while Kristoff fucked her.
Relationships: Anna/Hans (Disney), Anna/Kristoff (Disney)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	Your Attention

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched Frozen (2013) recently, and gave birth to this - a necessary exploration of Anna's childhood trauma and pathological need to be liked. Who's to say that her relationship with Kristoff is any more authentic than her relationship with Hans? It certainly wasn't any less hasty, and Frozen II failed to deliver on the character-development front for anyone but Elsa. Thus, this. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed - constructive criticism is always welcome - and if it wasn't clear from the summary, this is not a Kristanna-positive fic, so read at your own risk.

“Oh, Anna…”

Kristoff’s breath, hot and heavy, rolled down Anna’s neck, each of his chesty exhales perfectly in time with the thrust of his hips. A large, labour-roughened hand tightened around her waist, while the other grasped the headboard above her as he continued to thrust, and thrust, and thrust. The light fixture above them, lined with innumerable flickering candles, burning low and almost drowned in their own wax, bathed the both of them in a soft orange light that backlit each golden hair atop his head. His brows were drawn together with effort, his forehead beaded with sweat, his brown eyes melting.

He was beautiful, angelic, even, and yet for all she was feeling, he might not have been there at all. She’d heard that marriage might dull the spark, but they weren’t even married yet. What did that say for the future of their relationship?

Anna fixed her gaze on the chandelier just to the left of the blonde head bobbing so unappealingly above her and let her mind wander. When had sex stopped being exciting? She couldn’t even remember. Nothing had happened, per sé – there was no one single event to blame for the snuffing of their flame.

Rather, it had been a series of non-events: the first clichéd, cookie-cutter anniversary celebration that made her wonder, “Does he even really know me?” The first time she feigned tiredness to avoid their increasingly clunky lovemaking. The first time she turned her cheek to his puckered lips, avoiding the public displays of affection she’d once found second nature. The first faked orgasm. That one in particular felt like the biggest blow, a line she still harboured guilt for crossing – and yet it had opened the floodgates to so, so many more.

Where had the communication gone? Why was she no longer able to tell Kristoff how she felt? Relationships were so complicated, she told herself, and he could be so fragile, that sometimes it didn’t seem worth it to air her feelings, for all the coddling and reassuring she’d have to do afterwards.

That was certainty a part of it, but in reality, the truth was far more complicated.

Surely, in the beginning, the enthusiasm she’d felt about their relationship hadn’t stemmed solely from its novelty. It couldn’t have. It couldn’t have been the fact that it was all so new, that no matter how clumsy or haphazard their couplings, it was still exciting. Surely, at some point, she had loved Kristoff, loved the things they did together, loved the way he’d made her feel. Once upon a time, they had made sense.

Surely, at some point, she hadn’t pictured somebody else while Kristoff fucked her. Surely there had been a time that when he penetrated her, she hadn’t imagined the head moving above her tousled with red hair instead of blond, the body joined with hers pale and befreckled, rather than sun-kissed and scarred from years of hard work.

Usually, she suppressed these fantasies. She knew they were sick – Kristoff’s proposal had been perfect, his love for her the ultimate foil to the way that prince, that traitor had treated her, and entertaining them felt in a way even more treasonous than anything Hans had ever done.

Hans. His name. Even allowing herself to think it was further than she usually allowed herself to go, at least in the presence of her fiancé. Now it felt like breathing, a natural instinct, impossible to quash. Prince Hans, of the Southern Isles. Oxygen, filling her lungs, sending blood coursing through her veins, impassioned in ways she hadn’t felt since they’d danced together the night of Elsa’s coronation, the kingdom – their kingdom – sprawled below them atop the clock tower.

Hans, Hans, Hans.

Anna closed her eyes and lifted her legs, wrapping them around Kristoff’s burly, well-muscled waist, imagining it was smaller, slimmer, softened by years of royal treatment, yet somehow still masculine. She let out a groan as she drew her fiancé deeper within her, angling her hips so that with each thrust he reached new levels of pleasure.

If Kristoff exhibited any signs of surprise at her sudden display of enthusiasm, she was blind to them, utterly rapt in the most feverish waking dream she’d ever had.

Blind to them, but not deaf. Kristoff let out a gasp of surprise which soon morphed into guttural, almost animalist moans as he quickened his pace. In her mind’s eye, Hans moved above her, shifting the hold he’d had from her waist to her décolletage. In this fantasy, he was still gloved; he raised a slender finger to his rosy mouth, slipping it between petal-soft lips before tearing the white fabric away with equally white teeth.

He smirked before returning his hand to her shoulder, tracing the sharp planes of her collarbones and finally coming to rest at the base of her neck. He wrapped his naked fingers gently, ever so gently, around her porcelain throat. She gulped, lips parted, eyes still firmly closed, legs spread wide, so wide, ready to receive anything her prince had to give.

“Oh, Anna,” he breathed, and his voice was so husky, so wicked and filled with lust, that she nearly came on the spot.

She could picture him so completely, haloed in the candlelight. Too good to be true, she soaked him in anyway, positively bathing in his image. His auburn hair was exactly as rich as she remembered, his complexion precisely as creamy, marred only by the blood surging beneath, flushing him from the inside out. His sideburns were neatly trimmed, glinting with stray ginger hairs.

A thought blossomed: how delicious would they feel, pressed between her thighs? When was the last time Kristoff had gone down on her?

“P-Please,” she whispered, trembling, flexing her legs around her lover, unable to keep the beg from her tone. Kiss me, fuck me, flip me over and turn me around and use me – the thoughts raced unbidden through her mind, driving her wild, sending heat, so much heat, surging through her body, an explosion of sensation between her legs.

Kristoff froze.

Of course – their lovemaking was usually of the silent variety, punctuated not with sweet nothings or filthy whispered somethings, but the slap of skin against skin, the rocking of his hips into hers, dry, chafing, quick and then complete. Of course, the sound of her pleasure vocalised would be enough to cut it all even shorter.

“Anna? Are you alright?”

At once, her eyes snapped open, guilt panging painfully in her chest. His voice was so tender, so filled with concern, it nearly disgusted her.

She was so sick of sweet. Where was the passion? Love shouldn’t burn slow – it should flare up, hot and bright and smoking in the night, and disappear before sunup. What good is a flame in the day? What good is a conservative fire, one that represses the tongues of light and heat it naturally produces, one which does not lick and spit at the fuel it consumes?

In one fluid, courageous motion, Anna sat up, surging forward to plant her lips upon Kristoff’s. Only they weren’t Kristoff’s, they were Hans’s, and so too were the locks of hair she grabbed in fistfuls to hold herself upright, and, more importantly, to keep herself anchored to whatever scraps of reality still existed. Her tongue met briefly with his before moving ever forward to explore the cavern of his mouth, re-learning its many curves and planes and details.

Kristoff seemed unable to respond. This tempo was different from the slow, sweet one to which they had both grown accustomed. It took Anna clambering, naked and slick with sweat, into his lap for him to spring to action.

Disengaging for a moment from the kiss, Anna licked the palm of her hand and sent it downward, realigning Kristoff’s manhood with her entrance, for once wet and easily accommodating of his girth. This time, as he filled her, she no longer felt empty, but full, and she gasped into the kiss.

“Anna, are you–”

Anna brought her hand back up to clap over Kristoff’s mouth, the other still buried in his golden locks. “I’m fine,” she managed. A lie – fine was too pale a word to describe the pleasure she found herself succumbing to, a rainbow of sensation that coloured her whole world. Her thighs quivered, both from the effort of rising and falling on Kristoff’s cock, and from the feeling it brought.

Finally, Kristoff rocked back into her, unsure then gaining in speed as it became clear the mewling and moaning and short, sharp breaths Anna was releasing were sounds of pleasure, not pain. Confident he was now beyond speech, Anna removed her hand from Kristoff’s face and instead ran her fingernails lightly up and down his back, imagining faint pink lines trailing behind each fingertip.

If this was truly Hans, she would scratch him bloody, fuck him senseless, leave her mark in ways more than physical, the way he had left his mark on her. Why, years later, when she had everything she had ever wanted – love, a relationship with her sister, a relationship with the entire kingdom – could she not forget this man?

Anna clenched her inner walls around Kristoff, nearing her peak. She imagined Hans’ eyes, green, such a pretty green, boring into her own, seeing right through her, visualising her arousal, somehow able to see the heat coiling, like a spring wound too tight, in the pit of her stomach. He would smirk, would tell her – no, command her – to finish…

“Anna, I’m going to –ahhhh…”

Kristoff came inside her moments before Anna reached her climax, too, staining their soon-to-be-marital bed, for the first time since it had become a soon-to-be-marital bed, with the evidence of their near-simultaneous orgasms. He collapsed beside her, utterly spent, and fixed her with a warm gaze that was entirely the wrong colour.

“Should I ask what that was about?” he murmured, reaching out to cup her face with a touch that was too tender to ever bear the truth of their relationship, to ever know that his bride-to-be considered their engagement just another mistake in a long history of mistakes, borne of childhood trauma and neglect and a pathological need to be loved, a locked chest of baggage never to be sorted through.

Whoa. Where had that come from?

He rubbed his thumb over her cheek, comforting, and Anna closed her eyes, deciding she didn’t care.

“Nothing,” she replied, and nestled into Kristoff’s chest.

With her eyes closed, men all looked the same anyway.


End file.
